Confessions of a Lithe Butler
by NoxFox
Summary: Winston contemplates retirement...


**A/N: I came up with this in the early hours of the morning. I wondered how Winston would feel, having worked in Croft Manor and remembered about the various occasions I had enjoyed in the video games. Based before Underworld. Pure silliness. I do not own the rights to Shakespeare, Tomb Raider (Square Enix, formerly Eidos) or Shania Twain (Man! I feel like a woman!). Nor do I own Winston, Lara Croft, Zip, Von Croy or Alister. Enjoy and feel free to review :)!**

Dear Lady Croft,

Retirement.

I have considered it many times.

Countless times.

It all began with the incident in the kitchen.

Having had a head cold for a week, I was muttering to myself about your request to convert the dining room into a gymnasium, when I was 'accidently' locked in the freezer for several hours. I was forced to spoon one of the joints of ham with the hope that I could conserve my body temperature a little longer. That and my 90% wool, 10% angora long johns kept me at a reasonable temperature. I don't understand how you can frolic in shorts all year round!

There was also the 'tray' incident, which for psychological reasons, I will not delve into. I only would like to say that when I had last cleaned the aforementioned silverware, I distinctly remember there wasn't a target painted on the bottom.

Not to forget the fact that Keith and I (for that is the glazier's name, who for practical purposes shares the same landline as Croft Manor) know each other well enough to win the rather swish carriage clocks on Mr and Mrs. Though I have always admired those…would look rather dashing on the mantelpiece…That is not the point! You have broken enough glass in Croft Manor to open up your own recycled glass factory!

Furthermore, excluding your large collection of stolen artefacts, which Prof. Nosy (ironic, I know) of the British Museum attempts to gain information about by dressing in multiple disguises and visiting the Manor at every opportunity he gets. I have begun to leave various notes for him outside of the front door, it saves me 10 minutes of chatter (enough time to polish my tray). I dread to think what the authorities would do if they had any awareness about your arsenal of weaponry, which you so carefully keep in your bedroom and which I am forced, with quivering hands, to clean every week. How was I supposed to know how to put the safety on your Uzis?!

Oh, I'm not going to forget having to tuck, roll and dive into your secret artefact room before the door closes, having pulled the lever, adjacent to the hallway, once a week to do a spot of light dusting. I may be very lithe for a man of my age but it's no good for the suit! Contrary to Zips beliefs, I do not look like a whale 'beaching itself', when I climb out of the pool after my morning swim. It was on one occasion! The ladder was slippery!

There was also the time when I had hitherto been cleaning your shotgun (I maintain that it was so shiny that the gleam on the barrel could be seen from outer space) and you had made an impromptu arrival (leaving me with dreadfully little time to make you tea and scones) and to protect your decency I hid in the closet whilst you got changed screeching- yes, screeching- 'Man! I feel like a Woman!' (I've told you before the note is a G sharp not an A!)

What is it that I do whilst you're away? I've heard you ask on many an occasion.

It's the hedges!

I spend the whole of summer precariously balanced on the ladders with the pruning shears, ever since that unfortunate event, when Von Croy lost his glasses and demanded that the gardener complete the assault course in two minutes flat! 'Put the pruning shears down Ms. Croft and scale the wall!' (You will have noticed I leave the part of the garden where he escaped rather spectacularly on your quad bike; purely for nostalgic purposes) I must pause a moment to wipe a tear of laughter from my eye.

Then there is that pining fool, Mr. Fletcher, who insists on reciting his most favourite love poetry about you, at the top of his voice, whenever you vacate the Manor. I do not know how to compare thee to a Summer's day Lady Croft but I'm certain that man does! I just hope that he announces it to you sooner rather than later. I do love a good romance!

As your butler it is your right to give me what tasks you wish Lady Croft. Only I desire to have a full head of hair and all limbs intact by the time I retire from your services. That shall not be today and I shall hide this, the 57th failed letter announcing my retirement (or Confessions of a Lithe Butler, as I like to call it), with the others, in the closet where your dresses are kept. Until then,

Faithfully in your service,

Winston


End file.
